All the Devil’s Parties: A Gray Area

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All the Devil’s Parties: Saturday, August 7th

When getting ready for a night out in San Francisco I always run into the coat/shoes dilemma.  Will I be dancing for hours?  Will I be waiting outside in the cold?  Last Saturday night, I opted for the sweater/flats combo.

I went outside into the white fog and called my friend to suggest we taxi it up to North Beach.  She said she could use the extra twenty bucks, I realized I could too and ended up on a bus heading towards Hayes Valley.

We were going to Caffe Sport to celebrate my birthday, which really isn’t until next week, but hey you only live once, right?  The wait was about twenty minutes outside in the non-beach.  I was glad I had something warm on.  We got our food in under ten minutes, no joke.  Pesto, wine, seafood…yes we ate the garlic sauce because, as my friend pointed out, we didn’t plan on making out with anyone.  As a birthday treat, I got tiramisu with a nice little heart and candle on top, the table next to us got a penis pastry.  We declined their multiple invites to the strip club (it was, obviously, a bachelor party).

After dinner we went down to the End Up for [Kontrol].  It is surprisingly easy, once you reorient yourself from the food coma, to get from North Beach to SOMA.  You just take the 8x all the way.  I had been looking forward to this show for a while, but last minute realized not many people are as into minimal as they are, say, A-Trak, the other party going on that night (which was probably an awesome party with Peanut Butter Wolf, Mayer Hawthorne, etc.–the whole Fool’s Gold crew–photos here.  My friend doesn’t like ‘club music’ or ‘dj’s that just play things off their laptops’ and since it really wasn’t that…whatever that is, she came with me.  Her flatmate also was really into Marcel Dettmann, and chose [Kontrol] over the New Wave City party going on at the DNA Lounge.

We had to wait in line.  I hate waiting in line when I am on the guest list.  Hell, I hate waiting in line period.  But we waited in line and stared at the Chevron across the street.    We are both from a place where cars are necessary and since neither of us have one now we get kinda giddy when we see the rare gas station in the city.  I swear someone was farting in line.  They did the drug pat down and we both passed, yay!  We got there just before 11pm (earliest I have been out in a while) and so it was free.  They didn’t even have the guest list out; this explained the long line.

Upon entering I saw a pin ball machine.  Lots of neon colored lights, but no glow sticks.  Plenty of non-stylish people.  Plenty of people actually dancing, not touching each other.  People dancing AT you (that rare trance state where someone does an intense solo that takes up a five foot radial circle wherever they happen to be standing and upon finishing just walks away).  We got some expensive drinks and went outside to sit by the waterfall where our friend was already sitting.  I said it kinda reminded me of Berlin, be it the music or the outdoor patio…or the cold.  Our friend went on a long rant about how Berlin is so awesome and how Dettmann was the resident dj at Berghain, BERGHAIN, the coolest nightclub in the world!  It’s open ALL NIGHT AND DAY.  I thought, isn’t that kinda like the End Up?  Doesn’t this go all night?  Don’t they have djs all day tomorrow?  Aren’t Camea and Dettmann here now–and they live and perform in Berlin and around the world?

We then debated how much pot you would need to make sufficient, but not overpowering, magic brownies.  And how easy it is to get marijuana delivered to your doorstep.  So San Francisco is awesome, too.

We danced.  We sat.  My feet hurt, but not so much that I had to take my flats off.  We danced some more.  Admittedly, Camea sounded much more like what I wanted to hear than any of the local San Francisco djs I have heard in a while.  She really has a deep, dark, developed sound.  Dettmann was true Berghain Berlin amazingness, minus the hype.

I stupidly went outside at some point to make a drunken phone call.  Thankfully, they let me back in because I was on the guest list.  I had to wait in line again.  Upon second entry, they also took my nifty razor (it’s great for opening packages!).  Note to self: don’t leave the club to make a drunken phone call.

When I got into a taxi heading home in the wee hours of the next morning, the girl exiting swore she knew me.  I sat down alone and realized if I were in Berlin I would not be nice and warm in a taxi, but instead riding a homemade bike over post-war potholes and urban decay to my Berlin boyfriend’s flat in Friedrichshain.  I would most definitely be wearing tennis shoes and a hoodie.  And I also wouldn’t be going home for at least another two hours, when the sun would be just rising over Spree.

All the Devil’s Parties: Saturday, July 24 2010

I started out my Saturday night walking down Polk in tears.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a taxi?”
“No, it’s better this way.”

Every emotion is flushed out.  It’s messy and embarrassing, but it does the job (and leaves me with a headache).  Crying is magical…especially in public.

The best way to get over yourself and your emotions is to get on a bus.  So I got on a bus.

Spontaneous conversations, coincidental run ins, creepy eye contact.

More creepy eye contact.

I’m heading to meet my friend and go to a ‘super gay’ dance party at SF Underground.  The last time I went there it was a leather bondage extravaganza.  The time before that someone thought my hair was the most impressive thing ever and asked me for advice on how to deal with his boyfriend (he later stood me up at Schmidts, go figure).

I get off on 14th and walk slightly up hill.  I’m thirsty and stop at a liquor store for a bag of cheetoes and some beer.  Up another hill and I’m on my friend’s front stoop violating anti-open container laws.

“hey, is that a Beck’s?”
(I nod)
“is that German?”
(I nod)

My friend eventually shows up.  We go inside and pre-party with some orange flavored something in his kitchen, since they rent out their living room like most of us in this city.  I tell him Tommie Sunshine is dj-ing at LDL and he gets excited.  Our plans change.

We walk over to Triple Crown as it really is ‘less than a cigarette away’.  My bare legs aren’t even cold.  Entry is ten bucks, but it goes until 3am, which my friend says makes all the difference.

Chandeliers and disco balls.  Heather Small’s is belting “‘’cause you ride on time” and everyone is really getting down, or at least trying.  This is the kind of place you can flaunt something sexy or show up in some cutoffs and sneakers (like me). There’s a lot of plaid, heels, stripes, sequins…a hella mixed crowd.  It’s just full enough; no one is rubbing up against me and I don’t see (or smell) any sweat.  Only two people spill drinks in my area, and it’s from dancing, not being blackout drunk. No one needs to be pushed through the crowd to throw up.  There aren’t any roaming photographers.  The uni-sex bathrooms are smelly and I have to flush down someone else’s pee, but there is plenty of toilet paper.

A mad hatter offers me some coke.  A Swedish guy tells me I am ‘fucking beautiful’ and then walks away.  A strange kid dances behind me for a while until I realize and slowly escape, in a kind of bitchy way.  An old lady rocks out in the corner.  Tommie Sunshine keeps me moving and grooving, he also looks like Cousin It.

LDL is over.  I get a taxi to 7th and Harrison for House Work and hope I have some cash.  I do.  My friend happens to be at the door when I arrive. Everyone is waiting in line for the bathroom.  Down the stairs it’s a dark cave-meets-ship space with house pumping through the walls.  I dance and dance and dance.  I eventually go upstairs and find an art-filled living room.  People are sitting on couches.  The music is super varied.  No one is dancing. No one offers me coke. I feel weird and go back downstairs.

I tell my taxi driver my cross streets and he says ‘you mean Folsom and Folsom’.  I get confused, smile, and say ‘sure’.  He laughs.  He doesn’t need to ask if I’ve had a good night, he already knows.

Going out in San Francisco is kind of like getting on a bus in tears: it’s overwhelming, cathartic and can get messy, but you stick it out and enjoy every minute of it.  There is so much all the time and you never really know what you are going to get.  This city is as random as Los Angeles, as intense as New York, and as talented as Berlin, but just a fraction of the size.  You might find yourself walking miles in stilettos or jogging to your favorite club.  But whether it’s on the journey, at the club, or during the ride home, the people you met and the places you go are well worth the tears.